


I Have Spread My Dreams Under Your Feet; Tread Softly

by noviceliterati



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Stiles, Cheating - but it's complicated!, F/M, King Derek Hale, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Non sexual bonding, Royalty, manipulated derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-19 10:02:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7356805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noviceliterati/pseuds/noviceliterati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the man he loves is made to marry another, Stiles sees his dreams of the future shatter before his eyes. </p><p>How will Stiles, the High Magi of Beacon, deal with the fallout of his lovers decision? And can they ever find their way back to one another, or will country and duty separate them forever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been knocking around in my brain for ages and I just had to write it to stop it annoying me! Uh, yes, so I'm not sure if I should continue this so let me know what you think in the comments :-) 
> 
> As always, this work is not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Happy reading folks :-)

The temple was hushed in respectful silence as the magi quietly followed the priest to the altar. He stared at the white rose petals strewn at his feet and rebuked himself for allowing a frisson of pain to breach the iron wall of his control. 

The magi watched the priest ascend the steps to the raised platform of the alter and took his place behind the couple bedecked in rich purple cloth and shimmering jewels. Curling his cold fingers around his staff, he stood to attention facing the court and ignored the concerned looks directed his way from the front pews. 

Tuning out the priest as he recited the vows, the magi focused on the coloured shafts of light that bathed the temple. Reds, golds, blues, greens - the temple was bathed in a rainbow of colours and the magi lost himself in the light, even as darkness seeped into his heart. 

'Say my name Magi'. The magi blocked the memory of the whispered plea from his mind and curled his hands tightly around the length of his staff. Moments later the hushed silence of the temple was broken by enthusiastic applause as the ceremony came to an end and the magi steeled himself before standing aside. 

The magi focused on the dust motes dancing in the multicoloured light of the temple and moved to follow the King and his bride down the length of the aisle. White rose petals rained down upon the royal couple and the court cheered loudly, relief and joy evident in the echoes of 'long live the King' ringing through the temple. The magi felt his heart harden. 

***************************

"You are to gaurd the King tonight, Magi." 

The magi watched the knowing, sadistic smirk twist itself across the man's face but acquiesced without complaint or hesitation. He had forgotten what he was for a short time and it was a mistake he intended to spend the rest of his life rectifying. The man gestured towards the King's chambers and the magi silently made his way down the dimly lit hallways until he reached the large, ornate oak doors of the King's bed chambers. He glanced at the emblem carved into the wood and felt a searing pain spread across its twin inked onto his back. 

The foot soldiers standing guard at the doors bowed deeply at his approach before gratefully retiring for the night. The magi took his place in front of the doors and closed his eyes. His markings moved restlessly across his body, scratching and tearing at him, but he doubted there was anything he could do to placate his magic on such a night. He would suffer tonight as his magic shifted restlessly within him, but it was a suffering he welcomed with open arms. 

He heard a quiet sigh and hitched breathing, and his eyes flew open. There had been many times in his short life that he had cursed the gods for his abilities, but the curse that he directed at them as he heard a lust filled moan leak through the doors was perhaps the most hate filled. At each breathy moan, the magi felt the darkness drowning him, stealing the very air from his lungs. 

'Say my name Magi'. 

Reaching for the small dagger stowed beneath the fabric of his tunic, the magi curled his palm around the sharp edges of the blade and squeezed. The sharp sting of the blade cutting into his skin chased away the darkness and he greedily gasped for air. 

"Oh...oh by the gods - harder..." 

The magi focused on the warmth of the blood slicking his palm and the satisfying burn of pain that ripped through his arm as he squeezed the dagger tightly in his palm. 

'Say my name Magi'. 

 

***************************

As the black sky turned violet and the stars slowly faded away, two foot soldiers appeared before him to relieve him of his duty. The magi did not glance back at the closed doors of the King's bed chambers as was his usual custom, and he saw the soldiers glance at one another knowingly. The rising of the sun was hours away but the fires that lit the hallways had long since been extinguished, leaving the passageways shadowed and eery. The magi tapped his staff on the floor and the hall lit up before him with a pale yellow light that faded into darkness as he walked.

Knowing sleep would evade him, he made his way to the verdant gardens and stared up at the slowly brightening sky, where he stood for hours in silence. His markings burned his flesh as the sun finally appeared over the hills but he embraced the pain with gratitude, and repressed the magic that had been desperately trying to heal his body since the ceremonies had begun two days ago. The pain cut through his grief like a scythe and allowed him to see himself for what he truly was, what his heart had deceived him into thinking he was above.

The magi felt a presence winding its way through the deserted hallways to the gardens and waited. His magic sparked within him as the sky pigmented with soft pinks and pale yellows, and the familiar footfalls came to a halt behind him. The magi waited. 

"Will you not look at me?" 

The magi closed his eyes as the warmth of the sun washed over him and the presence behind him moved close enough that he could smell the scent of the rose water that the princess had been bathed in. 

'Say my name Magi'

A rough skinned hand snaked its way around his nape and a familiar electricity shot through him, part lust, part comfort, and part misguided hope. The triskelion inked on his back awoke at the touch, as it was designed to do, and he felt his magic surge and embed itself into every weary bone and knotted muscle. He recoiled at the intimacy of the touch and felt bile at the back of his throat as the scent of rose water clung to his skin. 

"Stiles-"

The magi violently repressed the grief that caused moisture to fill his eyes and turned to face the King with a stoic expression and cold eyes. 

"Your Majesty," he greeted the King formally, as he hadn't done in many years. "How may I be of service?" 

The King staggered back at the address and looked at him with a devastation in his eyes that the Magi had not seen for many years. 

"Stiles-"

The magi bowed his head and kept his eyes fixed to the dewy blades of grass at his feet. 

"Forgive me for the impudence, Your Majesty, but my name is Jarogniew. How may I be of service to the Crown?," he asked in a cold voice, refusing to look up into the emerald eyes that had bewitched him for far too long.

The King dropped to his knees before him, causing his heavy robe to fall open and reveal a broad chest littered with scratches. His markings clawed at him as the magi felt the darkness at his back once more and he found himself unable to breathe. 

"Please," the King begged, his voice hoarse and filled with grief, "I love you." 

'Say my name Magi'

Ice filled his veins and froze his heart at the King's words. 

"You are no longer mine, Derek, just as I am no longer yours. You are King Derek Alexander Hale of Beacon. I am the High Magi Jarogniew Henryk of Beacon, bound in lifelong servitude to the Crown. That is all we are now. Perhaps that is all we ever were." 

Stiles lifted his head to see Derek kneeling on the wet grass looking defeated even as he shook his head to refute Stiles' words. 

"No. I do not accept that, Stiles," argued Derek, sounding ever surer as he spoke. 

Stiles watched his King rise from the ground with a grace that he had always admired, his robe hanging from his broad shoulders to frame a sculpted torso that he knew intimately. Stiles tightened his hold on his staff and placed it infront of him as Derek neared but his King did not stop his advance, and glanced witheringly at the staff between them. Stiles looked once more at the scratches marking Derek's chest before speaking. 

"Your denial of the truth does not change it, Your Majesty, thus your acceptance is of no import," he told Derek, who watched him with dark eyes and clenched fists.

"The sun has risen, Your Majesty, you should return to your bride." 

The words caused his King great pain, that much was evident, but the passion with which he was grasped the moment the words left his lips was shocking nonetheless. His King's hands may have been rough and calloused, but until this moment, they had always held him gently. Derek's eyes flashed dangerously and Stiles no longer saw his lover in the man before him, he saw only a King being denied his desires. 

"Your cruelty will not deter me from loving you, Stiles," the King told him harshly, hands tightly circling his arms with the scent of rose water thick in the air. "And you are wrong. We never were, nor will we ever be, simply King and Magi. As I am forever yours, you are forever mine." 

For days the magi had refused to succumb to the insidious call of his rage but suddenly its siren song was all he could hear. Muttering the incantation under his breath, he pushed his staff into the King's chest and flung the man across the damp grounds. An excruciating pain ripped through him as the King landed with a heavy thud some distance away, and Stiles fell to the ground, no longer able to stand. 

The triskelion on his back burned as though it were a fresh brand and his magic rebelled against his control. The consequence of using his powers against his bonded ripped through him but he knew the pain would not last too long given that he had not grievously harmed the King. His vision wavered and he felt his body seize uncontrollably until finally, the pain passed, his vision cleared, and his body stilled. The magi breathed deeply for a moment before standing up and brushing the damp dirt from his tunic. He saw his King watching him from a short distance away, blood trickling from his mouth, and picked up his staff from the ground.

Stiles wiped away the blood trickling from his own mouth before turning to fully face his King. 

"This shall be the last time we meet this way, Derek," he said, allowing himself the intimacy of using the given name one last time. "We are no longer Stiles and Derek; you are my King and I am your Magi. That is all we shall ever be. Do not test me again." 

The King paled a little and nodded his head but his eyes betrayed him; the magi saw fierce determination in those green depths. As birds chirruped brightly in the sky, Stiles turned his back on the man who had sworn to remain at his side forever, and walked back towards the castle. 

The cloying scent of rose water surrounded him, and try as he might, the magi was unable to forget the sight of his King's scratched torso. Not my King, the magi told himself, the King. Not mine anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles makes a life altering decision....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so given the overwhelming majority of you wanting me to continue with this fic, I've decided to - you guessed it - continue it. Yay...kida ;-) 
> 
> I'm still writing Rage, rage etc so updates of both of these fics will switch back and forth. I intend to finish both but please be patient with me! Work and life and family can get in the way of writing sometimes but I will try my best to update whenever I can!
> 
> So, please enjoy (hopefully!)
> 
> As always,this work is not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Happy reading folks :-)

"Again." 

With some difficulty, the fair haired soldier pushed back onto his knees in the wet earth and wearily reached for his sword. Stiles wiped the rainwater from his face and readied himself as the soldier finally got to his feet and faced him. Pale, muddied, and weary, the soldier advanced clumsily towards him with his sword raised, exposing his flank and drawing a groan from the crowd of men surrounding them. Such idiocy had to be rectified, he told himself, as he ducked beneath the boy's raised arms and sank his steel into soft flesh. The soldier cried out in agony and dropped to the ground clutching his flank and whimpering for his mother like a child. 

The rain beat down onto the earth, and for a moment all he could see was earth and blood. 

"Commander -" 

He raised a hand to silence the Knight and squatted down to look the boy in the eye. 

"What did you do wrong, soldier?," he asked, ignoring the blood that pooled at the boy's knees. 

The clouds shook and rattled, and the rain beat against the skin of his bare back as he waited for the boy's answer. 

"Commander, the boy is-"

With a grace born of years of practice, Stiles rose from the wet ground and turned to face the troubled Knight, face devoid of any emotion or feeling. It was better this way, he told himself, to be made of stone. His markings shifted across his chest and he saw the Knight step back uncertainly. 

"Those who wage war upon us will not show mercy, Sir Alard, so neither should I. Soldier," he shouted over his shoulder, voice cutting through the cacophonous sound of the rain, "what did you do wrong?"

The boy's blood had soaked into the wet earth and the air was scented with its coppery pungency. Sir Alard moved to help his man when the boy cried out in pain but scrambled back when the leopard inked onto Stiles chest roared, causing thunder to clap overhead. Rivulets of rainwater ran down his face but he did not look away from the Knight as he once again questioned the boy. The remaining soldiers looked on in silence. Finally, he heard a pained voice behind him, high pitched and soft, it betrayed the boy's true age. 

"I-I exp..exposed my f-f-flank...Commander."

Stiles muttered an incantation under his breath and moved toward a trembling Sir Alard. He heard the boy's relieved sigh behind him as he stood eye to eye with the Knight of House Lander, whose hand quickly strayed to his sword. 

"Wrong, soldier. Your mistake was to think a child could step foot on the battleground. Tell me Sir Alard, is Lord Lander so desperate to win favour with the Crown that he would stoop so low as to bring me babes for the battlefield?," he asked, his voice low and filled with fury. "The boy's lips are still wet with his mother's milk and you dare to bring him to this place, to me?" 

The wolf inked on his shoulder leapt free of its cage and snapped its jaws around Sir Alard's throat, knocking him into the wet, bloodied earth. The wolf's silver coat darkened as it was pelted with rain and Stiles saw the animal's eyes flash dangerously. To bring a child to the gates of hell was a sin worthy of such a death, he thought, as the wolf's teeth sank into the Knight's tender flesh. 

"ENOUGH." 

The wolf released the Knight at the command and snarled viciously before leaping back onto his shoulder, where he paced restlessly and growled. The rain continued to lash against his skin as his triskelion burned at his back. The men around him quickly dropped to their knees and Sir Alard managed to bow his head, even as blood wept from the punctures left by his wolf's teeth. 

"Leave us," he heard the King command the men, who one by one faded away until he knew the grounds to be empty save for him and the King at his back. The clouds rumbled loudly but the rain calmed and the sky lightened. His skin burned with an ice cold heat as he felt the King's enraged gaze move across his bare back. Everywhere those eyes roamed, he felt his skin sear. 

"Where are your clothes, Stiles?"

Stiles' wolf snapped its jaws in anger as he turned to face his bonded. The King stood barely two feet from him with clenched fists and flared nostrils. He glanced down at his bare chest, ignoring the markings that watched him with sharp eyes, and found nothing that could drive a man such as the King to such possession. His muscular form may have aroused lust in many too in awe of his power to see the danger that slumbered beneath the form, but this- this absolute need to possess him, to snatch him away and conceal him from the world, had only ever been awakened in one man. This man. His King. The King. It was both terrifying and addictive to be the source of such consuming passion. 

"I discarded the tunic when I grew warm from training the men, Your Majesty," he answered honestly, knowing that he would have to answer with so many eyes permanently trained on the King. 

The King stalked forward and cupped a palm around the back of his neck, pulling Stiles close enough that the King's heated breath ghosted across his lips. This was the King of Beacon, and thus no matter how much he wanted to pull away, he knew that to do so in public would be a mistake. A King takes, and that which is not given willingly, is taken by force. Stiles was a slave, nothing more, never to be more, and what his King wanted, he would get. To a limit. 

The hand around his neck tightened and he gasped involuntarily at the familiar feeling of pleasure mixed with a delicious pain. Derek pulled his head back and pressed his temple to Stiles' cheek as his hand trailed down his bare chest to rest on his quivering stomach. Heat shot through his body as Derek's burning lips pressed against his neck. 

"Say my name, Stiles," heated words whispered against his cold skin, "please...."

Fire licked up his throat to his mouth and then he was all but devoured as Derek licked into his mouth and imprisoned his hands behind him. Stiles could not breathe. His magic erupted within him and every stroke of Derek's tongue engulfed him in a heat so blistering he felt his markings roar and snarl at the need to be closer to his bonded. Derek bit at his bottom lip and he tasted blood for a moment before he pulled away gasping for air. Derek pulled his hair, hard, and a moan escaped from somewhere inside him. 

"Say it," Derek commanded, as he latched onto his throat once more and sucked so hard that Stiles felt his knees weaken. "SAY IT. SAY MY NAME."

Stiles struggled against Derek's hold only to have Derek pull him even closer and tighten his hold. Break it. You can break it. Break him. Derek ceased the assault on his throat to look him in the eye and never had the High Magi of Beacon felt so weak. So utterly consumed.

As a gentle breeze whipped Derek's hair against his skin, the scent of rose water filled his lungs and suddenly, he felt ice cold in the arms that moments ago had sparked such a consuming heat within him. Stiles felt Derek's - the King's - lips at his mouth once more and swallowed the bile that hit the back of his throat. Not his King. Not mine anymore.

"Say it," the King pleaded, eyes red and cheeks scruffy with an uncharacteristically unkempt beard. "Stiles...please."

Stiles stilled and stared into the dimmed green eyes gazing longingly back at him, before breaking the King's hold on his wrists and pulling far away.

"What name would you have me say, Your Majesty?" 

The King appeared to shrink before him as he spoke, his broad shoulders hunching in and his dark head lowering in defeat. Stiles watched the King for a moment longer before turning around and walking back to the castle, ignoring the look of disgust on Sir Alard's face, who had clearly been watching them from the doorway. 

This could not go on; the King would not stop, and he did not know how long he could resist the draw of the man he loved. Coming to a decision, Stiles made his way to the Royal chambers with dark thoughts of the future still clouding his mind.

***************************

"This is madness." 

Dark haired and crooked jawed with a smile that had oft been described as blinding, the youngest Knight in all of Beacon was a handsome man. Though not as handsome when his smile disappeared and anger etched jagged lines into his forehead. 

"Scott, calm yourself," he told the Knight pacing the length of his room clad in a shimmering chain metal vest. "It is as it was always intended. Deaton was kind to grant me one more year to hone my training, but it is time for me to go. Deaton has served the Crown faithfully for many years, it is now my turn to serve." 

"Do you think me simple, my friend?," Scott challenged, striding forward and reaching for the small wooden sword hidden beneath his bed. "This is why you are leaving," he spat, throwing the sword at his feet. Stiles could still make out the now smoothed initials carved into the hilt. "Not for love of country, Stiles, but for love of its King. A King who abandoned you the moment his Sovereignty was at stake. Do not think I am blind to your suffering, my friend, but to rush into battle before you have prepared fully is foolish. Worse," Scott watched him gravely, "it is suicidal. Do not do this." 

Stiles picked up the training sword from the ground and turned it over in his hand, feeling its weight before snapping it in half. Throwing the splintered wood into the fire, he turned to face his friend with dark eyes. 

"Not all men fight for love of country, Scott. Such a lofty pursuit is for those of noble blood. Some men, those with blood as tainted as my own, fight simply to keep the darkness at bay, to keep it from swallowing the sun whole and blighting the lives of those he loves. You are correct; I go not for love of this country, nor for love of your God, I go for love of a man who I cannot stop myself from loving, I go to ensure that his sun burns brightly for many years to come. Hate me for such a weakness if you will, my friend, but I cannot deny that if my death preserves the light in his life...then I would let death take me with a smile on my lips." 

Scott's eyes filled with tears but he could offer no words of comfort. The Knight glanced at the crackling wood of the fire and nodded. 

"As you wish, Stiles. We set out at first light. Sleep well, my friend, it may be the last peaceful night you have on this earth," he said with haunted eyes before leaving the room. 

 

TBC.....


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King makes an unpleasant discovery....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this work is not beta read so all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Happy reading folks :-)

16 years ago:

 

The boy winced as the heavy door was pushed open, holding his dirty hand up to his eyes to shield them from the blinding light. The room he had been held in was small and dank, and despite the square of cloth he had been thrown to drape over his shoulders, the cold still seeped into his bones. The boy blinked away tears as he heard light footsteps approach him and he huddled even further into the small nook he had been hiding in for days. 

A soft hand, not much larger than hid own, settled on his shoulder and shook him gently. 

"Are you mine?," he heard whispered against his ear. 

The boy trembled, unable to understand what he was being asked, but disliking the question nonetheless. The hand shook him once again and the boy pulled the thin, cotton cloth over his head. 

"YOUR HIGHNESS! Your father will be most displeased if he discovers your whereabouts. Come away," he heard a deep voice exclaim. 

The boy felt someone press against his side and lean in close. 

"You feel like you're mine," the voice whispered into his ear, before the warmth at his side disappeared and he heard the heavy wooden door slam shut. 

The boy slowly pulled the cloth from his head and looked up to stare at the twinkling stars that peeked through the small opening high up on the far wall. Days he had been locked in this room, thinking and thinking, and still, he could not remember his own name. Why could he not remember his name?

**************************

Present day:

 

"Magi, I am honoured that you attended tonight's festivities." 

Stiles raised his head and smiled. 

"The honour is mine, Your Majesty. May the Lord make your love increase and overflow for eachother."   
The Queen beamed at the blessing and held tightly onto the larger hand resting by her own. Fair skinned with dark hair, pale blue eyes, and full lips, the Queen truly was a beautiful creature, but he confessed that it needled him that he could sense no artifice in the woman. It would have been simpler to despise her than to be indifferent to her, but it would appear that the Gods were determined to make him suffer.

"Thank you, Magi," the Queen smiled, blushing prettily and glancing at her husband adoringly. Stiles gritted his teeth and cast his eyes downwards. Raucous laughter broke out somewhere behind him and he did not realise that the Queen was still speaking until it was too late. "I had hoped to know you better, but... I understand how much more our men require your presence on the battlefield. May the Lord be with you, Magi, I shall pray for your victorious return."

The music and laughter that had filled the great hall around him ceased within seconds as the King rose from his throne with a menacing expression, and stepped down towards him. 

"Your Majesty -"

Stiles looked up to see the King silence his uncle with a raised hand. Peter bowed his head in submission and stepped back, and the King continued to descend from his throne towards him. Stiles felt the snake inked around his thigh slither up his abdomen and curl around his heart, slowing down its rapid beating, and cooling the heat that flooded through his body as the King neared. The Queen appeared troubled at the sudden change in atmosphere and clutched the gold cross sitting against her pale throat. 

"I do not recall giving you permission to leave, Magi." The King's eyes bored into him, the battle between anger and fear evident in their hazel depths. Stiles once more cast his eyes downwards and lowered his head respectfully. 

"I beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty. I should have informed you myself." 

"That does not answer my question, Magi," the King spat, anger clearly having been the victor in his internal struggle; here more than anywhere, before his Lords and Knights, the man stood before him was a King first and a man second. And it was to his King, not his lover, that he spoke. 

"Your Majesty, I -"

"Derek." 

The voice that interrupted him was known to all those in the great hall, many of whom dropped to their knees in respect. Stiles saw Derek turn questioningly to his father, only to pale when he found the answer to his question in his father's eyes. 

"No," he heard Derek whisper. 

King Marcus Luke Hale, once one of the greatest military leaders in Beacon's history, stood behind his son with a pitying look in his aged eyes.

"He sought permission from me many weeks ago, Derek, before your coronation. He is to leave at dawn." 

Derek stared at his father silently for a moment before nodding and waving his hand at the musicians. Music once more filled the hall and Stiles bowed one last time to the King before leaving the festivities. Ignoring the drunken revelers that pervaded the grounds, he made his way across the castle to the plainly furnished rooms that he'd resided in for as long as he could remember, desperate for some peace. 

He paused at the door to his rooms, and sighed wearily before opening the heavy oak doors. Peace was not to be had tonight; the King was waiting for him by his bed with a dangerously unreadable expression on his face. Stiles closed the doors behind him and leaned heavily against them. 

"You should not be here." 

"You intended to leave me," the King stated, his voice as hard as flint, as he removed his crown and threw it onto the bed. He removed his robe next and Stiles looked away when rich purple velvet gave way to pale, unblemished skin. 

"Intend. Not intended," he corrected the King, who moved towards him with storm filled eyes and a determined stride. Stiles straightened to his full height and squared his shoulders, already weary of the battle ahead. 

Derek pushed him back and caged him against the doors before leaning in and forcing Stiles to look at him with a rough hand to his jaw. Stiles stared back at Derek with fire in his eyes, only to have Derek pull him forward into a rough kiss. 

"Did you think there was anywhere you could go that I would not follow?," Derek breathed into his mouth before kissing him deeply, his hands straying to Stiles' waist. Unwilling to use his magic against Derek again, he pushed against the man's chest forcefully and turned his head away when Derek leaned in to kiss him again. 

"No, I did not," he said through gritted teeth, chest heaving and arms straining against the muscle the caged him. He felt Derek tighten his hold around him and breathe heavily against his neck. "But to what end? I will never willingly be your whore, Derek." 

Derek stilled against him. 

"Or is that what is to become of me? Will you take what is not freely given?" 

Derek recoiled and pulled away, his body visibly trembling as he turned his back on Stiles to reveal the thick, black lines of the triskelion. 

"My country asked me to sacrifice my heart for its safety, and though I knew it would destroy me, I did so willingly...but...it seems God is not done tormenting me." Derek glanced at the small, wooden cross hanging from the wall and sighed quietly. "Leave if you wish, I shall not stop you." 

Derek walked back to the bed and gathered his robes and Crown before ducking behind a large tapestry that had been hung on the wall to conceal a small passageway. Derek did not look back and Stiles felt something inside him fracture.

 

***************************

"It will be no longer than three days ride, God willing," Scott told him as he swung onto his horse, expression grim and jagged lines of worry still carved into his forehead. "Are you certain? War alters one in ways it is impossible to articulate...I would urge you to reconsider your decision." 

In lieu of answering, Stiles dug his heels into his horse's flank and galloped ahead of the small, but well equipped, group of soldiers that would be accompanying them to the northern most borders of Beacon. The wind was warm as it whipped through his hair and kissed his cheeks, and he was reminded of warm day, not too long ago, that had been spent lying naked in Derek's arms. The broken man he had left behind haunted him, and somewhat despicably, he prayed that the horrors of the war ahead of him would blot out the memories of the man behind him. 

A rider on a chestnut coloured horse galloped hard ahead of him, disrupting his melancholic thoughts and spooking his horse enough to throw him off the trail. Stiles pulled back and trotted over to Scott who was conversing amiably with the other men. The men guffawed at something the Knight said and Stiles was reminded of why the man was loved by so many. 

"Magi Henryk, how are you finding the ride?," Scott asked, addressing him formally before the soldiers. 

"Palatable," he answered dryly, much to the amusement of the men who were well aware of his hatred of long journeys on horseback. "I was just overtaken by an enthusiastic rider. Tell me, what mad man, eager for war, rides the chestnut coloured horse?" 

The men knew little about the rider, only that he had joined them only last night. 

"Quiet man," mused Arthur Melford, a blacksmith by trade who also happened to be a well trained swordsmen, "spoke to no one and was ready by his horse while I was still wiping the sleep from my eyes. Some men are too far from the Lord's grace and too eager for blood...it is unnatural." 

The eagle inked onto his arm awakened and Stiles focused on the dust trail kicked up by the man's horse. His vision sharpened and he made out a powerful form concealed beneath thin robes. Scott clapped him on the shoulder and began explaining the formation of the troops on the borders. 

By the time night fell, Stiles had forgotten about the rider, and found his mind wandering to pleasant thoughts of strong arms and raven hair. 

****************************

16 years ago:

 

The boy shivered as an arctic wind whistled through the trees beyond the window. Head resting against cold brick, the boy reached for the small square of cotton but inhaled sharply when his fingers found not cotton, but a padded silk sheet at his feet. 

The boy kicked it away and curled his spindly arms around himself to warm his frozen bones. When the sun rose the next day and his eyes opened, the boy found himself wrapped in the silk sheet with a boy, dark haired and green eyed, watching him curiously. The boy rolled over and held his breath until he heard the door open and close behind him. 

 

TBC......


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek makes the decision to leave court, but where will he go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, many apologies for the late update. I hope you enjoy the new chapter and please let me know if you spot any glaring errors! 
> 
> Thanks you so much for your amazing comments, which make my day, and the kudos.
> 
> As always, this work is not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Happy reading folks :-)

16 years ago: 

 

The young prince watched the boy struggle in his sleep but dared not move forward to soothe him for fear of waking him. The boy whimpered and cried out in a tongue he did not understand. He frowned; his father had told him little of the boy, only that he was powerful and that his destiny lay with the Crown. 

The young prince inched forward quietly and sat down on the dirty floor by the boy, whose cheeks he found to be wet with tears. Unable to understand the boy's cries, the prince smoothed a hand across the boy's hair and hoped that the gesture comforted him. The boy's eyes flew open at his touch and for a moment it was as though time stood still. Eyes the colour of honey gazed up at him fearfully, so he allowed the boy to run from his touch. 

Sweat dripped down the boy's neck as he hugged the far wall and cast those honeyed eyes downwards. The prince watched the boy a moment longer before standing and leaving the room. As he weaved through the intricate passageways secreted within the castle walls, the prince thought of the boy and the demons that haunted his dreams. 

 

***************************

Present day: 

 

"Sire." 

Derek unwrapped the cloth concealing the lower half of his face and turned to welcome his mother's Magi. 

"Deaton, it is good to see you." 

Deaton bowed deeply before muttering an incantation under his breath and tapping his staff on the ground three times. An unnatural hush fell over the forest and a shadow fell over the clearing where they stood. 

"It is done?," he asked, glancing at the sunlight that dappled the ground just beyond the edge of the clearing.   
"It is done, Sire, we are hidden. Any man that looks this way shall see only an empty clearing."

Sensing the unnaturalness of his surroundings, his horse whined and rose up on its hind legs, its mane flying wildly through the air. Derek approached the animal cautiously, arms outstretched, and soothed it as best he could. 

"You should have ridden Tempest, Sire, he is accustomed to my magic," Deaton remarked, stepping forward and calming the terrified animal with a hand that left a blue trail in its wake. The horse settled immediately and Derek sighed wearily. 

"A destrier is fit for a King, Deaton, not a soldier," he told the Magi, removing the weathered saddle from the animal's back. 

"Sire -"

"I am in no mood for your admonitions, Deaton," he interjected, turning to face the Magi with a dark expression. "The King has done his duty. It is time for the man to keep his oath." 

"Are the King and the man not one and the same?" 

"Not in this, Magi." 

"You would risk everything?," the Magi asked, his dark eyes betraying nothing of the man's thoughts. 

"You ask as if I have a choice," he smiled bitterly. "It is no more a choice to follow him than it is a choice for my heart to beat. Where he goes, I follow, has it not always been that way?" 

The magi ceded the point with a slight tilt of his head, but he saw worry emerge in the magi's eyes. 

"Yes, Sire, it has, but you are no longer a boy free from responsibility. You are a King, and your decisions affect far too many for this matter to be assigned to an emotional compulsion. This is a choice. It is your choice. Think carefully, for we stand at a precipice from which there is no turning back...for either of us."

The crushing weight of his Crown bore down upon him as he considered Deaton's words, and not for the first time in his life, he prayed that he had been born a commoner. 

'Only a privileged fool would pray for such a thing, Derek, I would suggest you refrain from bothering God with your tiresome demands.'

He smiled at the memory of Stiles' sharp rebuke and faced the magi with his decision clearly expressed on his face. Deaton cast his eyes towards the heavens and muttered an incantation before moving towards him and touching the end of his staff to Derek's chest. A searing pain flooded through his body and he fell to his knees, breathless and numb with pain, with the staff still firmly fixed to his chest. The clouds overhead parted, and just as the sun bathed the forest in a warm buttery light, he felt the bone crushing pain cease. Deaton helped him to his feet and gazed at him intently. 

"Well?," he huffed, still trying to catch his breath. 

The magi stared at him a moment longer and nodded. 

"You are unrecognizable, Sire. The enchantment will fool all but one. He may not see through the deception immediately, but with his vision, I have no doubt that he will eventually see past the facade. Keep your face covered when you are around him, and DO NOT let him touch you; I have surpressed the bond as much as I dare, but if you touch him, if you allow him to access your strength, the enchantment will break. This magic is old and delicate, Your Majesty, you must be respectful of its boundaries," the magi cautioned, turning away and gazing into the distance. 

"Stiles and the others will be here by nightfall. Come," he gestured towards a trail behind him, tapping his staff on the ground three times and breaking the enchantment around the clearing, "we have much to discuss before their arrival." 

The chestnut rouncey followed them through the forest without complaint and soon enough they arrived at a shoddily erected encampment. Deaton greeted groups of dirty, weary soldiers as they passed through the encampment, many of whom stared at Derek curiously, before finally stopping infront of a modestly built shelter. He followed Deaton into the tent, leaving his horse to graze quietly outside, and gratefully accepted the magi's offer of a drink. 

"The Argent's have captured swathes of land to the east of the encampment," Deaton told him, unrolling a map and gesturing for him to come closer. "Here and here," he pointed to two large areas on the map that encompassed acres of farming land. "Houses Frendrel and Rowan have suffered huge casualties in defence of the land, and the men have told of finding the severed limbs of villagers scattered about the fields. Our numbers are not insignificant, Sire, particularly since your betrothal to Queen Anne, but...it is not enough to stop the Argent's. I -" the magi hesitated and he saw a darkness fall over the man. 

"Deaton," he prompted, shaking the man out of a trance, "what is it?" 

The magi straightened and reached for the jug of water resting on the table. 

"There is something foul in the air, Sire," Deaton said in a hushed tone, taking a gulp of water and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I - I feel it on my skin, I taste it on the air, but I cannot - my magic is waning, Sire...I can feel it and I can taste its foulness, but I cannot grasp what I sense." 

Derek helped the magi to the crude bed that had been fashioned from hay and old planks of wood, and sat him down. The magi closed his eyes and Derek noted the hollowness of his cheeks. 

"Forgive me, Sire...I am not what I once was," Deaton smiled, opening his eyes. 

Derek narrowed his eyes and handed Deaton the jug of water, encouraging him to drink. 

"My mother valued your friendship above all else, Deaton, she would not want you to punish yourself in this way," he said truthfully, alluding to a history neither man wanted to broach. 

"Punishment?," Deaton sighed, "Helena is dead. Even if, as you say, I were punishing myself, it would only be to assuage my own guilt, and I loved your mother too much to disrespect her thusly. No, Sire, this is not punishment, this is me protecting what Helena loved above all else - her people, her country. Helena may be gone, but I am still here, and I will fight until my last breath." 

Unwilling to press Deaton any further, he insisted the magi rest and left the tent to wander around the encampment, his mind awash with thoughts of the Argent's and his mother. His mother and Deaton had been bonded since the ages of eleven, and he had witnessed first hand how a strong bond between the Crown and a Magi could ensure peace in the land. It was a peace he had hoped to extend to his own reign, hopes that had been shattered by the duplicitous Argent's, who slaughtered his mother in an attempt to take the throne. Two years had passed since that fateful day; two years, thousands of dead soldiers, and a politically advantageous marriage that brought with it tens of thousands of soldiers. Two years and the Argent's savagery in pursuit of power seemed only to be increasing. He thought of Deaton and wondered how long it would be before the magi's powers dwindled to nothing; a magi without his bonded could only retain his magic for so longafter all. 

The sky had begun to darken when he heard the tell tale sounds of arriving soldiers. Stiles, the Knight McCall, and the remaining soldiers rode into the encampment, whose occupants cheered when they saw Stiles, and greeted the few Lords that awaited their arrival. 

Realising he had neglected to bring a cloth with which to cover his face, Derek moved discreetly around the soldiers greeting the new arrivals and kept his head bowed. He heard the distinct voice of Lord Mowbray welcoming the party and made the error of glancing over his shoulder. Stiles, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed, watched his progress through the crowd, much to the annoyance of Lord Mowbray, who finally snapped his fingers and demanded the magi's attention. 

A silence fell over the crowd as Stiles slowly turned to face the Lord with steely eyes and a dangerous expression. Thunder clapped overhead and the leopard inked onto the magi's chest leapt forth through his tunic and paced restlessly by the magi's feet. 

"You have my attention, Lord Mowbray. What is it you require from me so urgently?," Stiles asked, soothing the snarling leopard with his hand. 

The Lord's moustache quivered comically and he saw a fleeting hint of amusement in his magi's eyes when the animal roared, causing the Lord to shriek loudly. 

"N-Nothing," stammered Lord Mowbray, only for Stiles to step forward and narrow his eyes. Lord Mowbray paled and nodded his head. 

"Nothing...Commander. Apologies." 

Derek smiled at the look on his magi's face and disappeared into the crowd. 

***************************

16 years ago:

 

The prince gently pushed open the door and listened for the sound of the boy's stilted breathing. He heard the strange language from the night before fall from the boy's sleeping mouth, and quietly removed the chain from around his neck. The moonlight filtering in through the small window glinted off the gold of the cross, illuminating it in the otherwise dark room. 

The boy rolled onto his stomach and curled in on himself, all the while whimpering and mumbling in the foreign tongue. The prince hid the cross behind a loose brick above the boy's head and repeated the prayer he'd acquired from one of the monks at the monastery. The boy groaned as though in pain but quieted a few minutes later, falling into a more peaceful sleep.

 

TBC.......

**Author's Note:**

> So, what d'you think - should I continue?
> 
> Also, let me know if I should add anything to the tags - I'm seriously crappy at it.


End file.
